


we are nowhere (and it's now)

by xylodemon



Series: deancas codas: season thirteen [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 11:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: Dean dreams about smoke billowing up toward a dark, starless sky.





	we are nowhere (and it's now)

**Author's Note:**

> Anything worth doing once is worth doing twice, so: have another 13x01 coda.
> 
> This is angsty as hell until it isn't. Warnings for alcohol use as a coping mechanism.
> 
> [Tumblr post](http://xylodemon.tumblr.com/post/166556343414/deancas-fic-we-are-nowhere-and-its-now).

Driving back to the bunker takes three days.

Dean would rather do it in two, but Sam starts bitching right as they're crossing into Idaho. It's a long drive, they're pretty roughed up — _blah blah blah_. Dean pushes it another fifty miles. After that, he figures his options are pulling over or punching Sam in the mouth.

They stop for the night in Boise and Cheyenne. They run into another angel ambush at a Gas & Sip in North Platte, but the kid does... something that drops all four of them like bricks. Something that gives him a migraine and a nosebleed that drips like a leaky faucet.

"There's probably a learning curve," Sam says, holding a shop rag to the kid's face.

Three fucking days. In that time, Dean learns that the kid likes orange soda, turkey jerky, and the soggy chicken salad sandwiches that KwikMarts sell shrinkwrapped and cut into triangles. He doesn't like bananas, but he likes banana candy. He likes banana candy so much that yellow Laffy Taffy wrappers end up all over the Impala's back seat.

Dean wants to feed him an angel blade, but he knows it won't do any good.

 

+

 

"So... what's the plan?" Sam asks.

Dean just looks at him for a second. Then he shrugs and knocks back a mouthful of beer. They got back to Lebanon two days ago, and all Dean's done since then is avoid the kid and ward the bunker against angels. He figures there isn't much else to do, besides seeing how many meals he can drink before he burns a hole in his gut.

"Look, I know you're —" Sam frowns and waves his hand a little. "But Mom —"

"Don't."

Sighing, Sam says, "Dean," and leans his shoulder against the wall. "Don't you want her back?"

"Of course I want her back. I'm just —" Dean shrugs again. "Lucifer killed her as soon as they hit the ground."

"We don't know that."

Dean swallows some more beer before saying, "Fine. Let's say he didn't. And let's say Rosemary's Baby in there can drill another hole in the matrix. She could — she could be anywhere. And anything could crawl through that door while it's open."

Sam says, "Dean," again, then huffs under his breath and walks away.

 

+

 

Dean dreams about smoke billowing up toward a dark, starless sky.

 

+

 

"You don't like me."

Dean didn't hear the kid come into the kitchen. He grits his teeth and white-knuckles the handle of the frying pan. 

After a pause, the kid frowns and says, "You don't like me," again. It isn't a question.

There's no point in denying it, so Dean says, "Nope." The ground beef in the pan starts to sizzle; he stabs at it with a spatula. "That a problem?"

Another pause. The kid sticks his chin out a little, like Sam when he's about to dig his heels in. "I don't understand."

"Nothing _to_ understand."

"I don't want to hurt anyone. My father —"

"Cas ain't your father."

"Yes, he is," the kid says stubbornly. "My mother chose him. _I_ chose him. I —"

"You brainwashed him," Dean snaps, slamming the spatula on the counter. The box of Hamburger Helper jumps beside his wrist. "You twisted his head all around and now he's — he's — he —" Dean swallows a noise. His eyes are stinging.

"I didn't mean to. My mother was afraid." The kid frowns at Dean again. "I didn't want Castiel to die."

The ground beef is burning. Dean kills the stove and walks out of the kitchen.

 

+

 

They're sitting on the couch, watching a History Channel thing on Noah's ark. Dean dreams about this night a lot, because it's one of the few nights Cas stayed. They weren't hunting anything. They didn't have demons on their tail, and they weren't dealing with Heaven's latest melodrama. Cas just... _stayed_. 

"That's not how it happened," Cas says, frowning at the screen.

Dean says, "Huh," and leans back against the couch's arm. If knowing an angel has taught him anything, it's that the Bible's full of crap. "So, God _didn't_ make it rain for forty days and forty nights?"

"He did make it rain, but forty days is an exaggeration. I believe it was closer to two weeks." Bluish light from the TV flickers over Cas' face. "But I was talking about Noah. He wasn't the only person God warned."

"Really?"

Cas nods. "Yes, really. There's a reason why multiple cultures have myths about a great flood."

Dean drains his beer before asking, "So... Gilgamesh?"

"Yes. And Utnapishtim, and Deucalion, and Manu, and Bergelmir. Just to name a few."

"Right." Dean's knowledge of mythology begins and ends with the rogue gods he's had to gank. He sets his empty bottle on the coffee table and gets to his feet. "I'm gonna grab another beer. You want one?"

"I — yes." Cas smiles. "Yes."

 

+

 

"He should have his own room."

Dean pauses the TV. Stannis and Melisandre freeze in the middle of an argument on a gray, windswept beach. "What?"

"Jack," Sam says. The floor creaks as he shifts in the doorway. "He should have his own room."

The kid doesn't really sleep. Once or twice, he's knocked out for an hour while watching TV. Other than that, he spends most of his time teaching himself to read in the library, or following Sam around like a stray dog looking for a handout.

"Whatever," Dean says, shrugging. "Tell him to pick one. It ain't like we're short on space."

 

+

 

Later, Dean finds the kid standing outside room fifteen.

He tugs the door closed, then grunts, "Not that one," and walks away.

 

+

 

Another angel ambush, this time in the parking lot of the Heartland Foods in Smith Center. 

There are only three of them — two chicks in gray suits and an older dude who's dressed like an ivy league English professor. He sneers as he punches Sam in the jaw. One of the women flings Dean back against the Impala. His angel blade spins out of his hand.

The kid is back at the bunker. All they can do is wait until they're bloody enough to draw a banishing sigil on the tarmac.

 

+

 

"Really?"

Cas nods. "Yes, really. There's a reason why multiple cultures have myths about a great flood."

Dean drains his beer before asking, "So... Gilgamesh?"

"Yes. And Utnapishtim, and Deucalion, and Manu, and Bergelmir. Just to name a few."

"Right." Dean's knowledge of mythology begins and ends with the rogue gods he's had to gank. He sets his empty bottle on the coffee table and gets to his feet. "I'm gonna grab another beer. You want one?"

"I — wait." Smiling, Cas reaches out and catches Dean's wrist. "Wait. Come here."

Dean mumbles, "What —?" because this isn't what happened. 

But Cas says, "Come here," again and tugs on Dean's arm. The old couch creaks and dips as Dean sits. Cas pauses for a second, then slides his hand up to the side of Dean's neck. Leaning in, he murmurs, "Dean," and presses his mouth to Dean's jaw. 

"Cas —?"

"Let me," Cas says. He kisses Dean's throat, his mouth hot and wet. "Let me. I want — I want —"

This isn't what happened, but Dean says, "Yeah, yeah," because he wants it too.

 

+

 

Dean wakes up late — late enough that he shuffles into the library feeling groggy and stiff. 

When he gets there, he finds Sam at the middle table, staring at his laptop. He's cradling a steaming cup of coffee with both hands.

"You better've brewed enough for the whole class."

"Full pot," Sam says, nodding at the eight-cupper they keep above the mini-fridge. "I was starting to think you were going to sleep all morning."

Dean doesn't want to talk about it — how he dreamed about Cas kissing him, touching him, how they rubbed against each other until they were both shaking and breathless. Sam's laptop is open to something about vetalas, so Dean points at it and asks, "Is that a job?"

"What —? No. Jody texted me a funky bite mark earlier." Sam takes a long sip of his coffee before continuing, "Should I be looking for a job? I just — I thought you'd want to wait until —"

"Until what, Sammy? Until Chuck clocks back in and brings — and brings —" Huffing, Dean digs his sore knuckles into the counter, hard enough to make them ache. "Until you talk Damien into ripping open reality?"

"He can do it," Sam says quietly. 

Dean's hands are shaking so bad he slops coffee over the side of the mug. "Yeah, he probably can. But what if — what if he opens that door and Lucifer walks through it?"

Sam leans back in his chair. "Then we kill him."

"Right," Dean says, snorting. "I mean, we've only been trying to do that for.... I don't know —? Eight years?"

Sam opens his mouth, then closes it. After a long pause, he asks, "You want me to finds us a job or not?"

"Yeah." Dean isn't sure he gives a shit anymore, but hunting is the only normal he knows. "Yeah, I guess."

 

+

 

"Tell me about him."

Dean jerks a little and fumbles with the bottle of Tide. If the kid doesn't stop sneaking up on him, he's going to stab him out of spite.

"About who?"

"About my — about Castiel."

Dean closes his eyes for a second. He takes a deep breath and grips the rim of the washing machine until his fingers go numb. "No."

The kid sighs. "Please."

Slowly, Dean turns around. The kid is lurking at the bottom of the laundry room stairs. The weird thing is, he kind of looks like Cas — at least, more like Cas than his real old man. Dean wonders if it's a fluke — if maybe Kelly's father was a blue-eyed, square-jawed sonofabitch — or if that's a choice the kid made, just like he chose to come into the world nearly grown.

"Why?" 

"I'm curious," the kid says. He's wearing one of Sam's shirts, a v-neck so old and wash-worn that it's hanging loose around his collarbone. "I only know what my mother saw."

Dean makes himself breathe. "Yeah? What was that?"

"She thought he was good," the kid says quietly. "Good and kind and strong."

"Yeah," Dean says, swallowing the lump in his throat. He dumps his clothes into the washing machine and slams the lid. "He was all of those things."

"But —"

"But nothing." Swallowing again, Dean says, "He's dead," and pushes past the kid to get to the stairs.

 

+

 

The kid's got juice. Serious juice. But he's got no idea what he's doing with it. And he doesn't know how to hold it in, so it just bursts out of him whenever he's angry or scared. Sometimes, he ends up letting loose when he's happy. 

Tonight, an episode of _The Simpsons_ got him laughing so hard that he brought down the bunker's power grid.

"Learning curve," Sam says, aiming a flashlight at the fuse box so Dean can see what he's doing. "We — we've got to figure out some way to teach him."

"How?" Dean asks. "Will you —" he taps Sam's wrist to put the flashlight where he wants it, and — Christ. Everything is melted. "I mean, it's not like we can send him to nephilim school."

"I know, I know."

There's a pause: Dean leans closer to the fuse box, breathing in dust and the bright, plasticky smell of burnt wires. He thinks about the couple of years Sam spent hopped up on Ruby's blood and icing demons with his mind. Some doors just shouldn't be opened.

He says, "Probably better if he doesn't mess with it."

"Maybe." The flashlight beam jiggles as Sam shrugs. "But he — if he doesn't learn to keep a lid on it, he's going to bring the whole place down on our heads."

"Yeah, but —"

Footsteps creak down the stairs. Quietly, the kid asks, "Can I try?"

Dean starts to say, "No," but Sam steps back to give the kid some space. The kid hesitates for a second, biting his lip. In the shitty light, his skin is waxy and orange-grey.

He touches his fuse box with his fingertips. Nothing happens, and nothing happens, and nothing happens. Then the air ripples and something pops and the lights come back on with a hum.

 

+

 

Cas says, "Come here," again and tugs on Dean's arm. The old couch creaks and dips as Dean sits. Cas pauses for a second, then slides his hand up to the side of Dean's neck. Leaning in, he murmurs, "Dean," and presses his mouth to Dean's jaw. 

"Cas —?"

"Let me," Cas says. He kisses Dean's throat, his mouth hot and wet. "Let me. I want — I want —"

Dean says, "Yeah, yeah," because he wants it too. He wraps his arm around Cas' waist and pulls until Cas is half in his lap. Cas kisses Dean's throat again, and his hand brushes through Dean's hair. Dean tips his head back, his breath hitching as Cas sucks a mark into his skin. He starts at Dean's collar and works his way up to Dean's mouth.

They kiss easy and slow. Cas' fingers brush through Dean's hair again, and Dean holds Cas' face in both hands. He catches Cas' lower lip between his teeth, then teases Cas into opening up so he can suck on Cas' tongue. Cas makes a low, soft noise and fists his hand in the front of Dean's shirt. When Dean pulls back to kiss his jaw, he shifts closer and pushes Dean flat on the couch.

His dick nudges against Dean's thigh, and another gorgeous noise shudders in his throat. He murmurs Dean's name, then tucks his face into the curve of Dean's neck and rolls his hips. Dean arches up to meet him, and he —

 

+

 

Dean wakes up hard and clutching at the sheets. A hollow ache spreads through his chest.

 

+

 

The land around the bunker is rocky and wild. Dew-wet prairie grass scratches at Dean's jeans as he staggers down the low rise that leads away from the frontage road. At the bottom, he pauses to knock back another shot of whiskey. It burns his throat enough to make him cough. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, then leans back against a tree and looks up at the empty, starless sky.

"Please," he mumbles. He doesn't know who he's talking to; Chuck isn't listening and Cas is dead. "Please."

His knees wobble, but the tree holds him up. He takes another shot, and another. An owl hoots overhead. Dean shudders out a breath. Everything smells like damp dirt and dead leaves.

Eventually, Sam hunts him down. His voice is brittle as he says, "Dean, this has to stop."

Dean snorts out a hollow laugh. "What, Sammy? What has to stop?"

"This," Sam says, snatching at the bottle. It's nearly empty, so Dean lets him have it. "You — this. I know you're hurting, but you've got to —"

"What? I've gotta... what —? Forget about it? Get back on that horse?"

The owl hoots again. Sam sighs under his breath and bats his hair out of his face. "Why are you even out here?" 

Dean's face flushes. He's out here now because he was out here the night he almost found the guts to kiss Cas. It was the same night he killed Cain; he'd said he was going to bed, but he slipped outside to get some air first. Cas followed him out a little later, and they spent about twenty minutes just standing there and looking at the stars. 

He'd leaned close to point one out, resting his other hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean thought about turning his head and finally catching Cas' mouth. He thought about it, but the Mark was still restless on his arm, and he still had Cain's blood under his fingernails. 

"I don't know, Sammy. I don't know."

 

+

 

"You want me to tell you about him?" Dean snarls, his voice whipping around the war room like a gunshot. He's drunk again, reeling from what was left of the emergency twenty-sixer he had stashed in his closet. "I'll fucking tell you about him."

"Dean," Sam says, grabbing his arm. "Dean, don't."

Dean shrugs him off and focuses on the kid. He's wearing a tan jacket and dark jeans, and Dean wants to punch him in the face. "He saved me. He pulled my ass outta Hell. I was down there forty years — forty fucking years, and he got me out."

He doesn't remember it, not really. Just the light and the heat, and a gust of wind that didn't smell like sulfur and ash. Being wrapped up in something soft. Feeling safe and unworthy at once.

"He was my friend," Dean continues, and he's shouting now, but he doesn't give a shit. "He fought with us. He was — he —" The room tilts to one side; Dean sucks in a breath and plants his hand on the map table. "Heaven — Heaven always wanted him to chose, and he — he always picked us. He was — he —"

"You loved him," the kid says quietly.

Dean's gut lurches, and his legs give out. His knees hit the concrete floor, and then he's puking. Shaking. Puking, puking.

Behind him, Sam mutters, "Damn it."

Someone touches the back of his neck, and everything goes black.

 

+

 

Dean wakes up to the ground shaking. His back and shoulders ache, and he — he's still on the war room floor. Groaning, he leans up on his elbow and rubs his face. His gut wants a divorce.

He hears a noise behind him. Then, "Hello, Dean."

Dean opens his eyes, and — fuck. He — that's — _fuck_.

"Cas?"

Smiling, Cas crouches at Dean's side. He touches Dean's arm and asks, "Can you stand?"

"I — I, um." Dean's head is pounding, and his legs feel like water. "Maybe in a couple minutes."

"Your brother told me you've been... intemperate while I was gone."

Dean mutters, "Traitor," and rubs his face again. His eyes feel gritty and raw. Cas is still touching his arm, but he has to ask, "Are you really here?" It wouldn't be the first time he crawled so deep into a bottle that he woke up in the morning seeing shit. "Like... alive?"

"Yes. I'm —"

The ground shakes again, rumbling long enough and hard enough that the stairs groan and the ceiling creaks. 

"What is that?"

"The earth is trying to resettle. Jack —"

"The kid?" Dean sits up a little more, wincing as his hangover stabs straight through his skull. "Where is he?"

Cas smiles again. "Currently, he's unconscious. Even with his abilities, what he did was remarkable. He reached into the Emtpy and brought me out."

"He — fuck." Dean's gut heaves, even though there isn't anything left in it. "Fuck."

Cas says, "Dean," softly and cups the side of Dean's face. 

A jolt of grace sweeps through him, so chilly and bright it feels like getting dunked in a bucket of ice water. Hissing, Dean shivers. Once it passes, his head clears and his gut settles.

Before Cas can pull away, Dean grabs his wrist. He strokes his thumb over Cas' pulse. Cas says, "Dean," again, but it's different this time — hopeful. His eyes are wide and incredibly blue.

Dean slides his other hand up to Cas' neck and tugs him close. "Promise me you ain't gonna do that ever again."

"Do what?"

"Die."

"Okay," Cas says, nodding. "I promise."

Dean says, "Okay," and pulls him in for a kiss.


End file.
